Work Text:
And the whiskey was so intense, and the burning was so intense, more so after all that time, and his throat was on fire, but fire, fire brings light, and wasn't light what all of them were after? Fire, light, warmth, it was December, after all.
Cal wanted to throw up. He took another swig from the half-empty bottle of bourbon, determined to convince himself that the cause of his retching was the smell of blood that filled the room, the sight of Silas's body in front of him, on his carpet, the very carpet he walked on every day on his way from the living room to the kitchen. He would have to throw it away, burn it, even, make it disappear somehow. Sarah would wonder where it had gone, she quite liked it, as much as someone can like a carpet or a piece of furniture. He tried to sit up. His apartment was spinning, his head hurt like it hadn't hurt in a long time. He hugged his knees to his chest, burying his head between his arms, his eyes closed tightly. Worse, he immediately felt worse. With his arms still around his knees, he leaned his head against the wall behind him and opened his eyes, blinking a few times as if he were trying to bring the room into focus, or make it stop spinning. The smell of blood, that's what was making him nauseous. Not the alcohol, never the alcohol. Silas's lifeless body, not the bourbon. His throat was burning because of Silas's blood on his shirt, his trousers, his floor, there was no doubt about it. Oh God, his shirt. A present from Eddie. He loved that shirt. Eddie had given it to him on his last Christmas as a 3R. Cal had given him 4R. Eddie. Eddie was at the Gathering. Shit, the Gathering. Where is my phone? Cal fished in the right pocket of his trousers for his cellphone, then, once he found it, pressed 6 and put it on speaker.
“Cal?” Eight seconds. Eddie usually took at least ten to answer. “Cal, what the fuck?” Cal had forgotten he was supposed to speak.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered, holding his head in his hands, the phone on the floor next to him.
“Cal, I can't hear you – sorry for what? Why weren't you at the Gathering?”
“It happened again.”
Had Cal been in front of him, the realization and subsequent fear in Eddie's eyes would have made his blood freeze in his veins. Then again, had Cal been in front of him, he wouldn't have called Eddie on his cellphone in the first place.
“Cal, where are you?”
“Home. The Compound.” Silence. He heard voices in the background. A child laughing. Eddie must have been outside. The Gathering was over. No light was coming in through his windows. What time was it again?
“I'm coming.” The opposite of his wife. He wondered what would've happened if he had called Eddie instead of Sarah the last time he had found himself in that condition during his stay in Troy.
Unsteadily, right hand on the wall for support, left hand still gripping the whiskey bottle tight, Cal stood up. He stumbled his way across the living room, retrieving his keys from the hook next to the front door, then out of the house, on the porch, away from Silas. He locked the door behind him. He sat down on the first step.
Cal didn't want to throw up. He took one last swig from the half-empty bottle of bourbon and threw the bottle as far away from him as he could with all the strength he could muster. It smashed against a tree. The noise made his head hurt more. He looked down at the dirt and grass at his feet and pressed his palms against his temples. He felt like and indirect character in Bob Dylan's The Times The Are A-Changing. He felt like one of the fathers whose sons and daughters were beyond his command. He felt like one of the people who had to admit the waters around them had grown. He felt drenched; he had forgotten how to swim.
He almost didn't feel Eddie's hand on his arm.
He looked up and watched Eddie sit beside him in silence.
Cal wanted to say something, but he couldn't afford to let Eddie know what he had done. He couldn't afford to let Eddie know his vision was real. Eddie shouldn't have been there. Why had he called him?
Cal felt the warmth of Eddie's arm around his shoulders. He realized Eddie had never seen him drunk; Only Sarah had. He knew about his problem, but had never witnessed it. Cal felt small.
Eddie's lips brushed his cheek, cold compared to his skin, and then they brushed his, hotter than ever. Then, finally, he spoke.
“I'll Walk with you.”
Eddie wondered how much he had had to drink.
Cal wondered when he'd wake up.